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Friday, 20 September 2013

Lurch

Fleet of foot, the fox slips over the brow of the hill
road; body dark, eyes lit: a photographic negative. Boy misses it but we are in
good time for his early bus.

He heads for London with a coach of arty students, two
cheese sandwiches and a camera. (Return time: roughly midnight.)

The house is quiet, bar the thump of Dog's tail. Sleep
is not calling. There is leftover coffee in a silver flask.

From the porch steps I see the sky lighten, the early
cloud drift, the tree silhouettes still leafed, like dark lace; the oak reminds
me of a Spanish shawl, a widow's dress.

-Imagine a widow in this breaking dawn light: the
sun rising on such a different life.

Birds are piping shrill; traffic on the A30 flows, a
constant churn.

The steps are cold: I have on a woollen coat, and
flip-flops.

-All over the world, such changes are happening: seasons and circumstances. History seems a clumsy lurch: if we get to hold
hands awhile, that is grace in a clumsy world. Good to be stoic but one must
leave gaps: it's where hope can get in. All good armour needs a chink, if one
is to be human, part of this perception curve.